Watson's Own Sad Bereavement
by Mavelle
Summary: An account of the death of Mary Morstan Watson, as told by Dr. John Watson


Disclaimer:  I do not own any of the characters portrayed herein.

Watson's Own Sad Bereavement

By Mavelle

            In the aftermath of Mr. Sherlock Holmes's death, I have found little enough to write about.  My dear Mary has often encouraged me to continue, but without my friend to provide the substance, my well of inspiration has gone dry.  That being said, I find a need to take up my pen once again, and record an event which has come upon me tragically and unexpectedly.

            It was approximately eight months ago that my wife came to me, a radiant expression on her face.  Shyly, she told me of what she hoped would come to pass in the autumn.  How shall I describe the joy of that moment?  It is impossible.  I can only say that there is one other moment in my life that is comparable, and that was when Mary consented to be my wife.

            It quickly became apparent, however, that Mary would not have an easy time of it.  She was of delicate constitution, although it was not visibly apparent, and was occasionally troubled by a weak heart.  Her physician (our neighbour, Anstruther) expressed some concerns, and at her fifth month, ordered bed rest.  Mary was not pleased at this.

            "John," she said, "I feel quite well.  Why should I be confined to these four walls?  Surely exercise would be more beneficial to me?"

            "You must listen to your doctor," I replied tenderly.  "Your condition is already placing a strain on your heart.  You cannot afford to strain it any further.  However, Sally and I shall arrange a cheerful place for you in the library.  With those large windows, you surely will not feel confined."

            "My dear John, you are the soul of consideration," she said, a smile returning to her face.  "With you here, I can bear anything."

            True to my word, I arranged a place downstairs for Mary to lie, always ensuring that the curtains were open during the day, and that fresh flowers were placed on her bedside table.  Every morning I would carry her down, and every evening carry her back upstairs.  She grew resigned to her bed rest, if she did not enjoy it.

            And so the summer wore on.  My practice continued to thrive, but I could not say the same for my wife.  She remained pale and her strength waned.  I hid my concern from her, though Anstruther appeared graver at every visit.  One day, as I returned from a visit to a patient, she called me into her room.

            "John," she said, "I have been thinking a great deal lately of your friend Mr. Holmes."  I opened my mouth, but she raised her hand to stop me.  "I know it pains you to speak of him still.  I would not mention him, but that I wish to ask you a very important question.  When our son is born…and I am quite certain we shall have a son…when our son is born, I would like to name him John Sherlock.  I wish him to bear the names of the two finest men I have ever known."

            Overwhelmed, I could not speak, but held her close.  To have my friend's name live on in my own son was my dearest wish, and I loved my wife all the better for having thought of it.  

            As was my custom now, I dined with Mary in the library, and then passed the evening by reading the paper aloud to her.  The Times had been running a series of articles by a Norwegian traveler; Sigerson by name.  They were well-written articles, and Mary liked nothing better than to listen to me read them.  She would drink in the details, then plan trips for us; sometimes to the far-off mountains of Tibet, others, to China or Japan.

            "One day, John," she would say, "we shall see these marvels for ourselves!"

            There came a night shortly thereafter, when my wife was seized with the most severe pains.  She was still several weeks before her time, but upon examining her I knew that the event was imminent.  I sent Sally next door for the doctor, doing what I could for Mary until he arrived.

            Anstruther arrived quickly, and I was dismissed from the room to go downstairs and pace the floor.  Hours passed.  I have, naturally, been present at these events many times in the course of my own practice, but never before has it seemed so long.  Often in the last year or two have I wished my friend Sherlock Holmes alive again, but none so fervently as that night.  Although at times, Holmes appears to be a man with little compassion, I knew that had he been alive, he would have sat with me during the night, and I would have welcomed his company most gladly.

            The light was turning to gray when the doctor finally came downstairs.  He found me in my study, and poured a glass of brandy, which he held out to me.

            "Drink this," he said, and I knew.  "I'm sorry, Watson, but there is nothing I can do.  Her heart is just too weak."

            My lips were dry, despite the brandy, and I could barely form the words.

            "The child?"

            He shook his head.

            "I'm sorry, my dear fellow.  He died only moments after birth."

            He.  A son.  I could feel the room begin to spin, and I believe I should have fainted if Anstruther had not steadied me.

            "John.  John!" he said, shaking me.  "You must go to Mary now.  There is little time.  I have told her nothing of the child's death; you must do as you think best."

            I left him standing in the study, and slowly made my way upstairs.  I had to compose myself for Mary's sake.  I paused a moment outside our door, and with a deep, steadying breath, let myself in.

            She laid so still that for a moment I feared I was too late, but at the sound of my step, she turned her head towards me and smiled.

            "My darling John," she said weakly.  "We have a son."

            "I know, my dearest," I said, trying to keep the grief from my voice.  "A fine, handsome son."

            "With a fine, handsome name," she replied.  "I'm so sorry that I won't be able to help you, but I know you'll be the best of fathers to him."

            "You mustn't speak like that, Mary.  You will get better."

            "No," she said with effort, "I know that I won't.  I'm tired, John.  I don't want to leave you and our son, but it's time for me to rest.  Now, I want you to make me a promise."

            "Anything, my love!"

            "Promise me that you will write again.  I don't expect it right away, but I think you would find that it helps you.  You don't have to write for publication, but please write."  She faltered, but went on.  "The happiest time of my life has been spent with you, my darling.  I want you to remember that.  I have never regretted for an instance the lost Agra treasure, for if I had that, I should never have had you."

            My heart bursting with emotion, I bent over her, and pressed my lips to hers for the last time.  She smiled up at me, and then closed her eyes.  She drew a breath, once, twice, and moved no more.

            I sat there unmoving, five, ten, perhaps fifteen minutes before the doctor re-entered the room.  He placed a hand on my shoulder, rousing me from my sorrowful reverie.

            "I'm so sorry, Watson.  If there is anything I can do, you need only ask.  Would you like to see the child?"

            I nodded, trying to regain my composure.  He picked up a blanket-wrapped bundle from the basket, and held it out me.  Taking it, I drew back a corner of the blanket and gazed upon the tiny, waxen form that I held cradled in my arms.  My son.

            The next few days were a blur.  I have little recollection of them.  I know I attended the funerals, arranging to have the babe buried in his mother's arms, but I have no memory of anything else that I did.

            And here I sit, on the evening after my wife and child's funeral, in a house that has never seemed quite so large and empty as it does tonight.  Although I had always intended to keep my promise to Mary, I had not planned on it so soon.  However, as I was sitting in the library, staring at the wilting vase of flowers that were the last I ever bought her, I found myself drawn to the drawer containing my pen and notebook.  And so I have written.  I do not expect that this shall ever see the light of day, and indeed, I do not wish it.  I have written this for myself alone, and in doing so, I find that, as always, my wife was right.  

            And now I shall lay down my pen, though it be not forever.  I have recently discovered notes from an old case of Holmes's, and I shall endeavour to compose something worthy of setting before the public.  I believe I shall call it The Hound of the Baskervilles.

            To my dearest Mary, if, in the realm you find yourself now (and I have no doubt that you are among the angels), you are able to read this, thank you.  I shall never forget you, or our son, John Sherlock Watson.


End file.
